


Oblivion

by Nikoshinigami



Series: Two of Every Kind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Remedy. While the people of the Ark lay sleeping, their lives continue on in dreams. Now the narrative lays broken, however, and the program appears to be running amok. Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Time is only linear from a singular perspective. While Sherlock's own narrative progressed from one point to the other, the intersects of other lives along the path created variables and divergences from routine and predictability. Even understanding that the geographical descriptions of his campus home and the location of his first lecture of the day were constants on a Tuesday, the people who crowded the lawn, the bits of conversation overheard, the change in his pace due to traffic concerns or weather all created variables which had the potential to make an obvious day into something more interesting. It never seemed to but there still existed that potential for something alarming and fantastic. If every person he observed--say fifty to be on the conservative side--were faced with their own fifty possible encounters to generate potential life turbulence, then there existed on any one morning an exponentially massive team of forces at work with the power to bring about change and interest into Sherlock's dull, predictable life. It was statistically improbable, in that case, that he should remain static within his own existence for much longer--he was due for something noteworthy above and beyond the simple nuances of observable adolescent behaviors. But despite every assurance and faith in such knowledge, Sherlock still would not have noticed the gravity of change his life had incurred if it had not--quite literally--bitten him.

From Sherlock's perspective, the dog was the only real surprise since he'd already been aware of his stalker for over a week by then. He'd first noticed the older man one morning before lecture but paid him no more mind than he did any other person standing around on campus. But then he saw him again at lunch, just standing aside and watching him, and still again on the sidewalk as he walked between buildings. He was used to being followed; his brother was of the habit of employing the occasional professional to spy on him now that he'd gotten himself away from the estate and its 'protective' walls. Professionals didn't stand under a tree and blatantly stare, though. Nor did they usually smile when Sherlock stared right back. Military from his stance, old enough to be his father from the looks of him, certainly of a type that Mycroft would entrust but he was just so _bad_ at it. Jumpers and jeans did not make one instantly covert and Sherlock wasn't convinced anyone in Mycroft's employ was even capable of a smile, let alone one that was quite so congenial. This one smiled like other people did when they looked at someone they once knew. Someone they liked. It was... odd... to be smiled at like that. It almost gave Sherlock the impression that the entire reason he was being so obvious was that he knew it was futile to be otherwise--an insult to Sherlock's deductive powers just in trying. He liked that. He liked to pretend it was courtesy and not ineptitude, at least. And he liked the mystery far more than he cared about the potential threat of a stalker and so did not bother to confront him. 'John Doe' was more a game than a concern and picking him out had become the highlight of even the smallest excursion.

The dog, on the other hand, was one-hundred percent new. Big, black, and dumb were the only real words that could be used to describe it from so short an introduction. Possessive certainly seemed to have played into it as well--Sherlock wasn't as well versed in animal motives as he was in those of humans but he was rather sure it wasn't exactly normal for a dog to bite a man for the crime of standing over his stick. But it was the stick that did it. The stick, unassuming and fatefully thrown along his route, was that magical variable that meant the dog's path, his owner's path, and that of the stalker should suddenly and somewhat violently collide.

Sherlock had picked his John Doe out within minutes of reaching the campus lawn, never returning the smile the stranger sent him but enjoying his mysterious presence in his own quiet way. He heard a man calling after his dog but ignored it as simple white-noise on the green and continued on his way in the normal, uninterrupted fashion. He'd hardly even recognized the growl of the beast until it had sunk its teeth into the meat of his calf, suddenly quite aware whom exactly 'Alfie' had been that the young man had been so eagerly calling to. In trying to pull away, Sherlock lost his footing and fell to his backside, other leg pulled up and poised to kick even as the frantic young man grabbed his dog by the neck scruff and collar to heave him away to some safer distance. It all happened in the span of seconds, the sudden rush of adrenalin a fairly welcome accompaniment to the previous monotony though the growing awareness of a throbbing ache in his leg was of a mounting concern as he stared at the large white teeth of his reclaimed attacker. Most everyone in the area had been witness to the sudden scuffle, a fair number of them drawing in to get a better look and assess the danger to themselves as the dog barked, and sniffed, and finally sat. Sherlock hadn't even the time to assess himself before hidden under another man's shadow as he knelt and turned Sherlock's face towards him with a world of worry in every wrinkle of his brow as he met him eye to eye.

"Are you alright?" John Doe asked. His voice was softer than he'd imagined, tenor and perfectly suited to the tone of concern. Sherlock was mildly disappointed his stalker's military stance was the only thing intimidating about the shorter, comfortably dressed man.

Sherlock did not bother to hide his frown though he could tell from the stalker's expression that his reasoning was misinterpreted. "Aside from the obvious, I'm fine," he said, placing his palms to the grass to lift himself up though the stalker's hands pressed down on his shoulder to make him still. John Doe shifted his weight as he slid down closer to Sherlock's bent legs, rolling the cloth of his trousers up as he inspected the broken flesh. The canine's canines had penetrated the skin, blood slowly seeping out at a sluggish pace while the rest of the area burned red with irritation and the beginnings of bruising in the shape of the dog's jaw.

"Oh, god, I am _so sorry_. Alfie, he's--he's never bitten anyone before. Not even growled."

"Well, that's the end of that particular streak then," John Doe said. He frowned over the marks, his fingers tender in their inspection.

The dog owner looked pale, his forehead damp with stress-sweat under the short fringe of his blonde bangs. "Jesus, does he need to go to hospital?"

"I believe I said I am fine." Sherlock reiterated, not in the least impressed with the small crowd of people staring at them and the general disregard for his own opinion in the matter. This was not the sort of attention he cared to garner from anyone--least of all strangers. He was a stoic student, not a damsel in distress.

John Doe certainly wasn't paying attention; not to anything above Sherlock's knee at any rate. "No need for hospital. I'm a doctor. Doesn't look like he needs stitches but I'll be able to tell better once it's cleaned." The older man rolled Sherlock's trouser leg till it would hold itself up off the sanguine tears and slid back to Sherlock's side. "Think you can put weight on it?" he asked him.

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. "Oh, are we addressing me now? Are you sure this isn't a topic you'd rather discuss amongst yourselves more?"

The stalker was undeterred by his tone, smiling slightly even as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's back, palm tight along his ribcage as he coerced him in bodily fashion to brace against his sturdy mass. It wasn't necessary as much as it was impossible to do much of anything but comply. With John Doe's sturdy grip and body supporting more than simply guiding Sherlock to rise, his own hand could only naturally come to rest across the other man's shoulders till they stood side by side in a parody of a single-arm embrace. Even standing, though, the stalker did not relinquish any of the weight he bore against himself as he waited, eyes cast down towards the bare leg that Sherlock had naturally tucked up into the air rather than force himself upon. He placed both heels to the ground and felt for the first time the stalker's hold on him subside to allow him to feel his full weight against the earth. It wasn't pleasant but it wasn't enough of an inconvenience to make subjecting himself to further public spectacle a worthwhile option. He took one step, felt the ankle protest, and on the other--while gravity worked against the lone pedestal of his bitten leg--felt the sudden flush of pain and brilliant awareness that he was going to fall down yet again. Or would have. John Doe had not been far enough removed from him to allow for such an embarrassing action. Instead he stumbled into his arms, his side pressed against the other man's chest once more as he welcomed him on instinct with his own arm tight around his shoulders.

"Lean on me. That's it," he said in a soft voice meant only for the two of them. "Let's get you back to your room, now, so I can take a better look at that leg."

Sherlock smirked as he pushed himself upright, amused by that simple turn of circumstance that idiots called fate. "Is that your usual chat-up line or is this improvisational?" he asked, enjoying the height he had over the man as that extra bit of superiority he could hold on to even while indebted to his sturdy presence.

John Doe seemed perplexed for a moment before his chin raised in understanding, his cheeks staining in a surprising shade of pink as he licked his lips before pursing them in an expression of guilt and conscious. "I promise, I really am a doctor," he offered in assurance.

"It's not your profession I'm questioning. More a remark in regards to your hobby."

He chuckled, shifting to stand astride as his hand fell to brace lower against Sherlock waist to give his patient the opportunity to lead. "What can I say? Never could turn away the opportunity to come to the rescue."

"If by rescue you mean being used as a human crutch, then your ambitions are even less laudable than your hobbies."

"Sorry, is there anything I can do to help?" the dog owner asked, his large beast panting with a rather dopey approximation of a grin on its box-like head. The dog had no fear of consequence but its owner looked appropriately terrified. Police reports, law suits, hefty fines for damages and court enforced euthanasia. He was certainly from money--widower father, never remarried, sole beneficiary--so the financial burden of fault certainly wasn't the issue. He either genuinely felt guilty for his dogs actions or singularly terrified his negligence would cost the creature its life. Perhaps both. It was lucky for him in that case that Sherlock could care less about an ill-behaved dog and more about the loss of mystery in his stalker companion who now had a profession and a personality.

Sherlock frowned, deciding against explaining the other student's true fault as he hobbled forward on his good leg with aid. "I think you'll grasp my meaning when I say you've done enough already."

John Doe indebted to be kinder than that to the sweating young man. "Mr. Trevor, was it?" he asked, looking between him and his dog. "I'll take care of things from here. You just see about getting a lead for that dog, alright?"

He nodded vigorously, knuckles white in their hold of Alfie's collar. "Right. Sorry. Really. _Very_ sorry," he said as he backed slowly away, giving them space even as he seemed too concerned to turn his back on either of them.

Sherlock had no time for the niceties of normal people. They had spectators so long as they stood on the green and there was nothing to be gained in being remembered as ' _that guy who got bit by that dog_ '. He ignored their exchange outside the obvious slip as he made as much haste as possible without looking too much like the weak link in a three-legged race. John Doe had no trouble in keeping up--army doctor was looking better and better. He certainly wasn't a civilian surgeon, though there still remained the matter of his present involvement. "Accomplice?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice flippant even as his eyes he knew would betray him with their sharp interest.

John Doe chuckled slightly, shaking his head. "You know, I'm beginning to think you have a rather low opinion of me."

"You knew his surname--he never spoke it and it wasn't written anywhere. You've been stalking me for a week, I was attacked, unprovoked, by a dog belonging to a man you obviously have some knowledge of, and now you're leading me back to my rooms where I'm sure you're aware no one else is at home at the moment."

"And you're letting me. Never did have much of a survival instinct, did you?" He shook his head again, as though enjoying some quiet insight that didn't bear sharing. The familiar way in which he addressed him was odd, though his observations weren't far from the truth. "I didn't arrange it," the stalker said. "Just... remembered the story is all. The story didn't include directions to your campus home, though, so steering's up to you."

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. "Good lord, you're not one of those imbeciles who fancies himself a psychic, are you?"

"Nope. Well... okay, no, I don't, but pretty much everything I could ever say to you would make it sound like it."

"From the future then?" Sherlock asked, brow raised, intentionally going for the impossible just to lead him to disclose whatever he rationalized as improbable. He never expected the stranger to agree with him.

"Sort of," he said with a shrug and a smile. He didn't bother to explain what exactly ' _sort of_ ' meant.

Sort of from the future? Not quite a psychic? Sherlock all but rolled his eyes as he groaned at the disaster that was the unveiling of his mystery stalker. "You were much more interesting when I knew nothing about you."

The stalker smiled, a soft chuckle hidden in his breath as he sighed against his shoulder. "My name's John. John Watson."

John. How utterly, predictably dull. "Of course it is," he sighed, and with every intention of making this as difficult and unrewarding as possible, Sherlock hobbled down the sidewalk with him towards the empty lodgings of his home away from home.


	2. Chapter 2

Home was a student flat, fully furnished and due to set the Holmes' estate back a few grand in repairs once Sherlock's tutelage was through. Chemical stains and burn marks were just a few of the observable issues involving his particular brand of wear and tear. The microwave had certainly seen better days. John Watson knew his way around a kitchen none the less, it seemed, and made use of the electric kettle while Sherlock sat in repose on the leather sofa. 

About halfway back to his flat the adrenalin had fully faded from his system to leave only the throbbing bite and, embarrassingly, the sharp pain of a twisted ankle. It was nice to finally get it lifted with his sock and shoe removed. Even his novice appraisal of the swelling was enough to assure him he'd not be doing much more than hobbling about for the rest of the day. In that way it was nice to have his stranger companion looking through the cabinets for tea and the hope of biscuits. Nice if not a little unwelcome all the same. The longer the other man remained in his presence, the less of a mystery he remained. Not just because Sherlock's deductive abilities were coming into their own but because the man _talked_. He did not seem like the sort to chatter on to fill the vacancy of conversation but he seemed quite keen to keep Sherlock subdued with small talk none the less. Nice day. Nice weather. Nice campus. He was either nervous or simply not very good at pointless niceties. He needn't have bothered but Sherlock felt reticent to tell him off when the sound of his voice helped divert his attention from the ache in his leg. Mystery though he failed to be, the entire episode was still surreal enough to be entertaining. John Watson the unlikely stalker was most assuredly mad but then most interesting people were.

The fact that he did not bother with the necessary pleasantry of asking Sherlock how he took his tea was mildly irritating, however. Staring at the ceiling, despite having heard the _ting_ of the spoon in his mug, Sherlock was surprised to see the striped crockery held out for him to grasp. Surely no man of grey years was so uncivilized as to presume to know how another took his tea without inquiry. Sherlock had half a mind to refuse it but rather liked instead the idea of spitting it out theatrically to emphasize his point. He took it in hand, pleased by the color but prepared to be disappointed in its taste. One sip of the hot liquid, though, set aside any question as to whether or not this was an acceptable brew. Sweet, but not too sweet; milky and smooth. It wasn't as though there was an infinite variation of options in his kitchen contents from which to guess from but it was still eerily spot on. He owned sugar and obviously did not bake; was that enough to give him away? The milk was a recent purchase but already half gone; had that been a clue? He hadn't really given much thought into how his pantry might give evidence to his tastes through the presence of its ingredients. Something to consider in future. For now, it was simply a point of interest. "I've half a mind to say you have as observant an eye as my own," he said as he took a longer drink with eyes set upon the moving form of his companion. 

Tea delivered, his stalker perched on the coffee table beside Sherlock's legs, a moist flannel in hand as he touched it gently to the dried paths of blood. He smiled almost sheepishly at the compliment, obviously taking it as one. "Nope. Just a lot of practice," he said. He was tender in his motions as he cleaned the rather superficial wound, soaking and rubbing rather than scraping with mute vigor. It was difficult to find him threatening and so Sherlock didn't bother to. Instead he sipped and observed, taking note of every detail the man offered at closer inspection while he pried into the absurdity of his previous claims. 

It was impossible not to bait him. "Isn't it bad form to come from the future and brazenly interfere with people's lives in the past?" he asked.

John raised his hairline with a pursed expression, the last of the dried blood coming up as he slicked down the fine hairs of his leg. "I'm not from the future. Or, more accurately, this isn't the past. Or even the present for that matter."

"Speak in riddles now, do you?"

John chuckled, eyes squinting shut as he let the flannel rest on the floor and turned his attention to feeling along the now quite obviously swollen ankle bellow the bite mark. "This is a dream, Sherlock," he said, attending with medical know-how even as he spoke utter nonsense. "We're sleeping."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course. Silly of me. I should have realized--what with the pain and all."

"Trust me, Sherlock, dreams can be very, very real." John lifted his foot and flexed it carefully, setting it down with just as much care once the continued hiss under Sherlock's breath stood to scold him.

"Dreaming is also a solitary activity. So am I supposed to be the dream or are you?"

John's eyes seemed to darken with that, not shaded with the lust of anger but with something far more blunt that dulled the dark blue into the color of muddy waters. The tops of his eyes were lost to the hang of his brow and the puffs of skin that filled in below the pale lower lashes were all the more pronounced with his slow flinch. His breathing seemed to pause without a hitch though it ran in a long stream through his nose till his lungs were adequately emptied. It was a remarkably convincing display of an unwillingness that had no explanation. John shrugged his square shoulders and set his jaw as he pressed his fingers firmly along the tendons of Sherlock's leg. "It's a long story, Sherlock. It really doesn't make any sense if I try and make it shorter. It's one big dream with lots of people sharing it. Which is why my being lucid hasn't mattered; I'm not a strong enough presence on my own. The dreams go on whether we're aware of it or not"

Sherlock hissed once more as the stalker's fingers pressed too close to the swelling. "Oh, well then. That's that explained," he said, never far removed from snark when pressed to be patient.

John wasn't deterred but proceeded gently, a smile pulling his thin lips thinner. "You say that. But then you still wonder how I know how you like your tea, how I know you arrange your clothes chromatically, how I know you have a secret drug habit--or are at least entertaining the idea of experimenting with illegal substances at this time--and how it happens that I know that as a child you wanted to grow up to be a pirate."

The quick retort set to fire off in an instant stalled, faltered, and died before ever making it far enough to curl his tongue. Sherlock half-snapped his jaw shut just to be sure no hint of an unrefined response snuck out with foolish haste. How one person could guess at any one of those things was hardly a mystery but four random, personal facts was better than Sherlock's own record. The tea and clothing could be easily explained just by virtue of the man's stalker behavior--probably had lied about not knowing where he lived and had peeked through the window or some other nonsense. Assuming a college student might be considering drug use was playing to a valid enough stereotype so that was that. But how on earth did the strange man know he'd wanted to be a pirate? Sherlock did not own anything akin to pirate paraphernalia. The closest thing to a spyglass he owned was his pocked magnifier and every book on his shelf pointed strictly to a macabre fascination with violent crimes. Police officer made sense; detective, magistrate, council. Pirate didn't. Pirate didn't exist since age eight and was perpetuated in memory by only one person. "Mycroft. Obviously," he said, even as the conflicting notion that Mycroft would not employ someone so bad at spying nagged at the back of his mind.

John seemed equally unimpressed and continued to smile with a superior glint bringing the muddy waters near to the clear again. "Shot in the dark. Not your best, either. You know he doesn't go in for these sorts of mind-games."

No, he didn't. And there was really no reason for John to know even that. "Even if I were to believe you--which I emphatically do not--you've yet to explain why you alone should be self-aware."

"I don't know." John sat back and leaned forward, weight on his elbows as they sank down against his thighs above the knee, hands clasped and watch visible above the roll of the cuff of his sleeve. "I think something went wrong. I wasn't always and then... well, then I was. I mean, everything used to be linear. It used to make sense. And now it doesn't. You and I were chasing down criminals through London just a few weeks ago and now you're in school. Last month we were in a bunker in Kabul. We're all linked together in some great big delusion run by a super computer who's job is to create and maintain something sensible. And, I mean, things still make sense. But there's no point in becoming involved in the story if it's just going to end suddenly and move on and I'm the only one who seems to notice."

Sherlock smirked with mocked sincerity. "Have you ever considered the fact that it's much more likely that you're simply insane rather than that everyone you meet is a figment of your imagination?"

"Nope."

"Might want to rethink that," Sherlock offered, smiling all the more as he stretched both legs out in the pursuit of some minor comfort. "Shame for a decent doctor to be lost to dementia."

John shrugged his brows though the tips above his nose staid pointed towards his wrinkled hairline. "I lost the world's only consulting detective to circumstances and a forced delusion." He smiled without humor, either at a memory or simply in a perverse nod to his own believed misfortune. "There's nothing to rethink," he said, and his voice said he meant it. "I know what's real."

A cold shiver ran down Sherlock's spine, goose-pimples breaking out along his exposed skin. Consulting detective. It sounded a lot like the sort of work he'd come to fancy himself doing. And not even Mycroft knew that. He shifted uncomfortably against the sofa, trying to mask his body's response and how it set his neck and shoulders stiff. "Who are you?" he asked, beginning to wonder how much he'd underestimated the other man and perhaps reconsider the probability of there being something unwelcome in his tea.

"Captain John Hamish Watson, MD.; RMC with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers." John's crooked smirk was almost a wink, though it wouldn't have added anything to the already obvious pride in his telling. Sherlock had already assumed army doctor but it was nice to be proven right with so much else seeming to stall his usual brilliance. John let his smile fade from flirty to sullen before nodding his head to unspoken thought. "I used to keep a blog. You might find me on the internet. Never quite sure how that works in a dream, though. And you've no reason to believe me anyway."

Sadly, other than possessing every reason to believe he was completely mad, Sherlock didn't have much reason not to believe him either. "No form of ID?" he asked, though he was certain even if it looked legitimate he could still hold to some measure of certainty it was a very good fake.

John shook his head. "Strangely enough, I don't carry much on me when I'm dreaming. Best I can do is summon up a gun now and then."

That piqued Sherlock's interest. "Can you? Show me."

"Tried that before. Doesn't work. Gun, food, newspaper, anything really. Your subconscious will make it make sense either by rationalizing it or accepting the sudden appearance as a normal part of life."

Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Hardly." He let out a long sigh, not nearly as bored as he wanted to appear. John was as fascinating as he was unbelievable. "If you're not even going to try to convince me, what was the point of making yourself out to look like a complete lunatic?"

John set his jaw. His hands fidgeted as his lips pursed and eyes wandered. It was interesting to see that he actually seemed to be considering going through with the magic trick. There was something to be said about a man who had that level of conviction in his own delusions. Madness was a curious disease. All at once he seemed to smile, though, with the same sort of pained pull to his eyes as before. He shrugged his brows and clapped his hands like someone ready to go, rubbing his thumbs over the junction of his palms in mute anticipation. He licked his lips, tongue darting out quickly before the lips pulled taut with another forced smirk. 

All the while they had been talking, Sherlock had looked at John while John himself looked at Sherlock's leg, at his own hands, at the wall, and at the ceiling. It was rather startling for him to look back. Sherlock was used to observing, to being ignored, to talking without the full and undivided attention of his audience. He was very used to speaking _at_ people, not _to_ them. It hadn't even occurred to him that John could or should look at him as they spoke. He much preferred his quiet observation of the way his blue eyes clouded to hazel or the manner in which he nervously toyed with his lips to the way John looked back at him--not as something invisible like most but as something transparent. "Do you like your bear?" he asked, clearing his throat as something caught against his tenor.

Sherlock looked down at the teddy bear tucked into the crook of his elbow, hugged tight in the cross of his arms. Had he really been sat on the sofa hugging the old thing like some sort of child? Well, he refused to be belittled for it. Lots of people had things of comfort; there was nothing strange about a token item of security. "What about it?" he asked, toying with the soft fuzz of one of the ears in an idle demonstration of how unconcerned he was to be caught with it.

John looked away, nodding quietly to himself as he pushed up off the table and rose. "Nothing. Just continuing to follow patterns of insanity."

"Well, that's because you are insane."

"Just not in the way you think." John rolled his shoulders and rubbed against his neck with his palm, groaning quietly as he corrected his bent posture. He picked up the empty mug of tea--had Sherlock already drank it all? He didn't really recall putting it down. "I'm going to stay here," John announced, tapping his fingertips against the hollow ceramic. "I want you to stay off your leg for a while so I'm going to move in for a few days at least."

Sherlock scoffed at his audacity. "And why on earth should I allow that?"

"Because I said so," he explained, and the dip of his chin said that was all anyone need accept as reason. He raised his brows at the absence of immediate rebuttal and turned to walk to the kitchen to dismiss any that should follow. "Despite what you like others to think, you actually do like to be bossed around now and then. You can't offer resistance if there's nothing to push against. The Devil's Advocate is only as powerful as the angel he keeps at hand. And you're curious about me. So you're not going to mind me staying here in the slightest."

"You're a very presumptuous man, Dr. Watson."

John shrugged, mug rinsed and placed in the sink as he spoke above the running water. "I know how to throw my weight around. And when. I'll order us a Chinese for lunch. Lord knows I'm not going to find anything fit for human consumption if I open your mini fridge."

Sherlock blinked several times in the silent space where he should have shot down every insistence that the stalker stay, correct his assumption that he might actually like John's assertive behavior, and balk at the very idea of needing any sort of help due to a simple twisting of his anterior talofibular and calcaneofibular ligaments. He should have but did not. Instead he continued to rub the soft bear fur between his finger and thumb, squishing the filling into the corners to isolate the outer casing beneath his pinch. He was going to let the man stay. Because Mycroft would hate it and reason said it was all but suicidal. He'd been missing a spot of thrill and uncertainty to his life and letting a possibly dangerous man stay in close quarters was rather like swimming with sharks--perfectly safe until they mistook one for prey. Friend or foe was really all the same as far as Sherlock was concerned having only ever had the latter. The crazy old man was welcome to stay so long as his madness remained interesting. It gave him something to reason out, something to test his observations on even if there was the uncertain variable of psychosis to consider. John believed it and that made it real to him; made it relevant in Sherlock's deductions. And before his ankle was fully healed he was quite certain he could discover the nature of the turbulence that stirred the waters and set his dark blue eyes to muddy.


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you ever dream of falling?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, the blur of unused vision not changing the landscape of the ceiling by much. "I think it's safe to assume most people do," he said, bringing the heel of his hand up to his right eye to rub away the distortion that blinking alone could not remove. He didn't remember falling asleep on the sofa. In the time since he had, John seemed to have cleaned up a bit with papers and slides all still pressed to one end of the den's table but the cartons of Chinese no longer resting in their wake. Presently, John sat in his red armchair near the fireplace, looking down at his laptop as he pecked at the letters like a hen after seed. Right at home, then. Presumptuous as he was, Sherlock rather liked a guest who didn't expect to be seen to. It was far less irritating in the long run. He groaned and stretched, feeling the leather under him give little resistance to the slide of his dressing gown.

"Do you remember your dreams?"

Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes as he let his head flop over to the side, bangs bouncing against his forehead. "No. Not important. You're the only one with a preoccupation with dreams. The rest of us are quite content to idle in the land of the living."

John made an amused hum before shaking his head and pecking again at the tiles on his lap. "Well, so much for making conversation," he said, seemingly forgetting he'd just woken Sherlock up with his obtuse musing. 

"It's not a conversation you're making," he corrected him, sitting up to the worn creek of the sofa. "It's an inquiry. The answer is no; I don't remember being anyone other than myself. In fact, I've deleted all dream material from my head to make room for important things like my study of poisons." Sherlock waved his hand in the direction of his kitchen table which seemed to have moved to the interior of a small aqua-tiled kitchen and held equipment he usually needed to frequent the university's lab facilities to use.

John hummed again with greater amusement as his hairline squished down into rolls of skin above his brow. "Well, we wouldn't want to clutter up the ol' mind palace, would we?" he said in a mocking tone.

"How do--" Sherlock cut himself off again, scowling with the discernment to know that only the fantastic answer was likely to be shared. Never the real one. It _had_ to be Mycroft's doing; no one simply made random jokes about the Method of Loci without some sort of prompting of its relevance. It was infuriating to be fed fairy tales when the truth offered so much more of interest. The amount of conviction the man had in his mad explanations made him either the greatest actor to have ever lived or alluded to a serious breach of ethics and the perversion of justice in the British Government. Feeding crazy people with facts and setting them upon unsuspecting civilians was a curious notion but brainwashing spies into believing fantastic bullshit was even more brilliant a method of conditioning men of talents with a bulletproof alibi of dementia. _That_ was what he wanted to be discussing. Not dreams.

The unlikely stalker didn't care about government conspiracies or the possibility he was a pawn in a much larger plot, though. He only seemed to care about one thing: Sherlock. Single minded devotion was not exactly a trait Sherlock held in high esteem but John certainly had a knack for it and a style all his own. Firm, not placating; challenging, not sycophantic. Concern, not pity. His confidence was undermined only by his melancholy and even that was easy enough to stomach from a man who pushed on rather than let it linger. It was a shame his head was such a contradiction of insight and blindness. He seemed the rare sort who, under different circumstances, might have been palatable even without the mystery. 

To his credit, John never let his small victories spur him further and it was only a delicate smile and quick, sideways glance that stood up to the lingering question and the assumption of its expiration. "Don't rule out the impossible, Sherlock," he said, tone meant to inform more so than implore. "Impossible things happen. With increasing regularity."

Sherlock sighed, arms crossed as he threw himself back down against the sofa with a broken, long-suffering exhale. "Alright then. You're dying to tell me so go on. Tell me the _impossible_ tale of Dreaming Dr. Watson and his nightmare Sherlock Holmes." It would be more interesting than whatever work he had left to do for his classes that had made it to rung zero on the ascending scale of things he planned to spare more than a sneer on.

It seemed John didn't need much more prompting than that. Closing the lid on his laptop, he licked his lips but seemed keen for the turn of conversation. He smiled intermittently as he sat staring at Sherlock's own abandoned green chair as though born upon it were a stack of books on the spines of which were alternating titles of misery and bliss. "I've lived it twice now and I still don't really know that I could tell it in a way that would make him happy," John said, scratching at the back of his neck under the fold of his red collar. "I'm too romantic and not scientific enough but I think it's safe enough to just say that he and I met, we shared a flat, we solved crimes together, shit happened, and in the real world that meant a global pandemic and billions dead. In the dream world... well, the story ended differently."

"He died."

John paused with the expression of a choking man, his breath caught in the purse of his lips. His brow scrunched into disturbed waves over eyes that had muddied so profoundly they were nearly black from several feet away. He frowned with a tight jaw and the dip of his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

"It's not exactly hard to figure out," Sherlock explained, not even attempting to disguise his boredom. "If Mr. Trevor was not your accomplice then you had no reason to be on hand--you were just watching me for your own comfort and happened to be there when the dog bit me. If you held much hope for my being him, you would have engaged me sooner and would be working harder at trying to convince me. You've demonstrated yourself to be a rather proactive person so you're not innately complacent. Then there's the matter of your wording--you _lost_ him--which is peculiar if you're truly under the impression that he is me only I'm unaware of it. And you don't look at me. From afar you did but you rarely look me in the face when I'm speaking to you. It all paints a rather clear picture that you're not looking for someone, you're mourning them. You tried to distance yourself but were unable to ignore your instincts when you saw me requiring assistance. It doesn't bother me that you're worried a version of me I don't believe ever existed has died."

John's smile was vacant as his eyes sank into their pillows beneath. "You are every bit as brilliant an asshole as I remember," he said.

"Good to know I'm universally approachable."

He seemed to like that. John smiled a little brighter, a laugh uncontained through his sinuses as it buzzed through the hollow of his nose. It seemed almost instant, though, that the amusement faded to a soft, parting scoff of pained acceptance. He let the laughter settle in the peace of silence before adding to it his version of Sherlock's deduced concerns. "We were in the middle of a case and then... he killed himself. The things he said didn't make sense, it was just bits and pieces related to the case but coming out of _his_ mouth like it was true despite the fact that it was complete rubbish. He wouldn't have said it and he wouldn't have done it. But he did. And that's when the stories went all wrong. Coincidences happen, I get that, but what are the odds that his death would happen at the same time as the dreams broke down and there not be some sort of link? I think whatever happened to the Ark project happened to Sherlock too. The computer did its best to make him dying make sense--that's what it does; it tries to make you rationalize and accept. But I couldn't."

"So you think I'm just a figment of your subconscious acting as you would expect me to," Sherlock surmised with a scrunch of his nose. "Sort of masochistic, really."

John shook his head, scooting closer to the edge of his chair as he beckoned with his hands for greater attention. "The Ark's a computer that our minds are synched into. And if it can go into our minds, what's to say it can't work in reverse? The Ark is supposed to preserve the intellectual elite and who wouldn't want to create a back-up as a fail-safe?" He seemed to skip over the part where he was quite obviously not an intellectual and yet seemed still counted among them. Minor detail; part of his delusional state to overlook the obvious. Sherlock was more interested in the focused serenity that seemed to pass over the other man's features. John liked getting to talk about it--to talk through his doubts with someone better at these sorts of leaps in logic. It was very hard not to admit that Sherlock himself rather liked being consulted. Still, John continued on, growing increasingly animated as his mental train continued to pick up speed. "I've met enough Sherlocks to say that they're always him. Even the crazy dreams where things are utterly ridiculous have a Sherlock that is unaffected by the prevailing insanity. I do think you're him. Just... not the living him. You're quite possibly all that's left. And somewhere in that archive there has got to be his memories of me. But until the dream says that's relevant data, I'm just crazy John Watson."

He was certainly right about one thing at any rate. Sherlock pressed his bangs back, sweeping them away from the hood of his eyes. "Why assume just because he died in the dream that he died in your perceived 'real world'? Just because there's no network connection doesn't mean the peripheral ceases to exist."

"If things were going well enough for them to wake him up, I'd be awake too." John smiled like a supplies teacher, hands clasped in front of him with index fingers steepled and pointing in Sherlock's direction. He was a master of sarcastic grins. "My Sherlock's skin is around seventy to eighty percent covered in scar tissue. The damage done around his mouth makes him look a bit like a comic villain. He's blind in his right eye, is missing large chunks of hair, and is one of the only known survivors of the pandemic. And as such, blood, marrow, organ tissue, everything is fair game in the research for a cure or vaccination. And I don't trust them not to scoop out his brain and scramble it into test tubes if it can help them in their cause. The world's desperate. And honestly, neither of us had much of a choice. It wouldn't even have to be something they did, though. I mean, we're all on life support but there's life support and then there's _life support_. If something were to happen to the power, the vast majority of us would be okay with a hiccup of interruption, but... Just... I've thought a lot about it. A lot. And there is no reason for them to wake him up before me. And that is literally the only way he would be alive and yet not here anymore." His voice seemed to lose traction in the end, trailing off into a gruff squeak of air over a closed throat. He swallowed thickly, chin bobbing with the effort as his tongue darted out once again to moisten his thin, cracked lips.

Sherlock wasn't, in general, very good with emotions. He could read the extremes without issue but there were always nuances in the spectrum that fell far bellow his perceivable grid. John felt sad. John felt cheated. There were lots of obvious shades set high in the hierarchy of feelings but why John should still feel pain over a memory and a guess fell far bellow his known threshold. "A shame you can't be one of the happy lunatics," he said, flexing his jaw as he blinked up at the ceiling. "You've created a rather bleak existence for yourself."

"Oh, fuck you!"

Sherlock paused at the expletive and shot a hurried glance towards his seated companion. John was angry. John was shaking. For the first time since he'd met the man, Sherlock felt a moment of fear at not being able to run away.

John rose up with the squeal of the chair's harried scoot over the wood, hands in fists and poised to pounce as his face turned red with rage. "You're not better than me just because you think I'm crazy. You're just some sad, pathetic teenager no one cares about. Everyone who knows you hates you and that's just fine by you because Sherlock Holmes doesn't need people. He doesn't need friends. Why don't you go see if Seb feels like giving you a hand? Hm?" He stood his ground for only a second, more threatening in silence then he could ever hope to be as he nearly spat with fury. He marched to the door and ripped his coat from the hook. "You know, the real shame isn't just that I'm stuck here with every conceivable iteration of him known to man but that you will _never_ be him. You are just a memory of him he learned to be better than. And I am wasting my time." He'd hardly paused to shrug his shoulders beneath the asymmetrical coat before spinning towards the staircase and with one, sweeping gesture slammed the door behind him with such force that the teeth in Billy's jaw were set to rattle.


	4. Chapter 4

Sentiment.

It was not Sherlock's greatest virtue though his lack of compassion was certainly counted high among his vices. So what if he made John mad? John wasn't anyone. He was some crazy older man who had no reason to be hanging out with university students in the first place. Stalker. Delusional romantic. Sherlock was better off with him gone--certainly safer, and it wasn't as though he actually _needed_ help. John had outgrown his short period of usefulness the moment he became predictable and proved to be just like everyone else. So good riddance. Sherlock didn't need him. He didn't need anyone.

All he needed in his life was information and the resources to get it. John had already proven that he had no care or knowledge about the forces that created him. Sherlock could probably ask for hours and not find out much more than that which seemed to point to the already obvious conclusion. It had to be Mycroft. He was the only person who knew as much as John seemed to know. Even their own mother didn't know about the pirate thing or at least would not have found any use in remembering it. Beside which, her involvement precluded the assumption that she was one to speak to people about her sons in any great detail or in consideration of ancient anecdotes. If not Mummy, then there remained only Mycroft whose position also put his hand quite close to the biscuit tin of military science and espionage. There were crumbs of Mycroft all over this puzzle and it only remained for him to ascertain motive and modus now that his brother was so plainly behind of the madman's presence.

He picked up his mobile from the coffee table, thumb pressing down against the raised, rubber buttons as he recalled his brother's own number. He doubted he'd ever see John again but it was still a good use of his time to follow up on his appearance should another take his place. Mycroft would think him slow otherwise. He held the speaker to his ear as it rang on the other end, waiting to be greeted with the tired drone of his brother's voice.

A woman answered instead. "Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled at his phone, pulling it away from his ear to check the number despite already being one hundred percent assured he'd dialed the right one. "This is my brother's personal mobile. Why are you answering it?"

"He's busy," his assistant said, living up to her title in the absence of a name. "Can I help you?"

"That depends. Willing to discuss who may or may not be trailing me this month?"

"Not today, no. Would you like me to give Mr. Holmes a message?"

It was pointless to expect any better. He bent his arm over his forehead, nose wrinkled in vexation. "Yes. Tell him I'm being stalked by a madman who thinks I'm a computerized version of a friend who died in a dream, and who may or may not have also orchestrated my being attacked by a dog to gain access to my home. The stalker, that is--not the dead dream friend that is but isn't me. Are you writing this down? I could text you, or better yet you could hand the phone over to my brother with the knowledge that while not urgent, I would not be calling him at all if not important."

"I took note. Anything else?" she asked. She had the disinterested tone of a woman working holiday hours at Sainsbury's, the forced pleasantness in her voice not sugary-sweet but honey-smooth with pleasantries dipped in insincerity.

Sherlock shrugged despite the phone's limited resources in transmitting the gesture. "Oh, I don't know. I think crazy stalker should be enough. If you want to throw in the bit where he's a medically trained solider as well, that's fine. I'm sure Mycroft would be able to deduce it himself, though, with one look at my efficiently murdered and dismembered corpse." He hung up before she could start in on anything further, not interested in 'goodbye' or any pointless promises to do her job efficiently or timely. He didn't want to talk to Mycroft's buffer system of admins and decoys.

He liked his brother much more before he decided to become ' _important_ '. Important people didn't have time to ask how someone was, they just put in surveillance so as to have the benefit to know the details according to their own schedule. Important people reveled in their superiority and in flaunting it. If Mycroft didn't have time for Sherlock, well then, Sherlock didn't have time for him either. He had plenty of tings he could be doing. Books to read. Poisonous compounds to study. His ankle didn't hurt so bad as to make him completely infirm. There was certainly no need to follow doctor's orders when the doctor was an idiot. 

As it happened, he didn't feel much like getting up, though. He didn't move at all as he laid in the quiet, phone pressed between his palms under steepled fingers resting at his chin. He closed his eyes and let his mind wander as he tried not to be conscious of the time ticking by. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Perhaps his brother had choked on a dry biscuit and was being carted away to hospital. Maybe he was experiencing explosive diarrhea and life-threatening dehydration. Maybe there had been an uprising and he was being primed for the hangman's noose. Surely there was a very, _very_ good reason why he would ignore his call and the well deserved conversation completely. If he was behind it, he owed it to Sherlock to explain. And if he wasn't? Well, if he wasn't responsible, surely that would be all the more reason to call him back as soon as humanly possible. His darling baby brother was in danger after all. And unlike what John seemed to think, he did indeed have people who cared about him. Mycroft would call and in the end it would be that stupid woman's fault for not making it a priority to give him his messages.

That did not mean that when the phone chirped between his hands that he did not immediately open with irritation and annoyance rather than a greeting. "Twenty minutes?" he said, glaring at the ceiling in the absence of his brother's face. "Did she not bother to mention the madman in my home? I could have been murdered and skinned in less time than it took you to call." He kicked his legs up on the arm of the sofa, sinking low to unbend his neck as he sprawled in discontent.

The voice that responded was not his brother's. "I did tell him, Sherlock." It was _her_ again. "Your brother sends his regards and asks that you refrain from theatrics and hyperbole. He also said to get well soon and to remember that calla lilies are out of season right now so to try and not get yourself killed."

"His concern is overwhelming." Whatever further reply she had for him was cut short as he let the phone sail through the air towards the far away floor. Who needed brothers anyway? Mycroft was nothing but a self-involved waste of air. Sherlock could get to the bottom of the case on his own-- _without_ his help.

As the phone slid across the floor, it came to a stop against the side of a brown, leather shoe. Sherlock looked over with the sound of its discontinued journey and followed with his eyes up the blue denim-clad legs, the grey jumper, the sleeves of the red button-down showing just above the clenching fist as John Watson stood in his kitchen once more. The stalker looked down at the phone then back up towards Sherlock, his brow furrowed in question as his shoulders hiked in curiosity. 

Sherlock shrugged and looked away, not in the least bit concerned about the phone or that John had decided to come back. He heard him sigh and move about, heard his steps come closer and felt his shadow pass over him as the man placed his phone back on the table beside him.

"Might need that," he said, voice slightly hushed as he hovered near the sofa. Sherlock didn't look at him but he could feel him there and knew with almost certainty what John's face would look like if he did turn to see. It was rare to feel so familiar around someone he believed very little about. It seemed to be in his nature to be welcomed no matter how uncharacteristic Sherlock felt it was for himself to let him remain. "Um... look, I'm... I'm sorry about what I said earlier. You're not the only one who can be a dick sometimes. So... yeah."

Sherlock formed his lips into a tight line, teeth nipping at the inner skin beneath his bottom lip as he kept his eyes averted enough to only catch the ghost of him outside his present view. "Why bother apologizing if you don't think life is real or that anything here matters?" It seemed a reasonable enough question. The root of the outburst had as much to do with Sherlock's continued dismissal of his delusion as it did his undermining the other man's 'feelings'.

John slipped his hands into his pockets, coat rustling as he moved. "There's no telling how long a dream can last. Could be hours. Days. Years. Seconds. And I don't want more things to regret saying if it ends here and we move on to the next. I know you're an unrepentant arse but we both know you can be better than that. And so can I. So I'm sorry."

The better man. A good man. Sherlock didn't have anything to say to that as he was neither. He was just some sad, pathetic teenager no one cared about. No one but John. Accepting John's version of reality made that feeling in his chest, the bubble of accomplishment and joy of acquisition, make a lot more sense when given a context outside of loneliness and simple boredom. He didn't have friends. John could be one. John probably already thought he was one. But John was a lie--had to be, logic dictated no other possibility. And logic was far more compelling than any flutter of feeling that seized him.

John seemed to take his silence as stubbornness and did not pursue his apology further. He walked instead back towards the kitchen and with the clatter of mugs set to the task of getting them something to drink. He didn't ask permission to stay, didn't seem to give it a second thought at all as he continued on like he had every right to be there. Like it was his home now too. 

"I almost wish I could believe you. About this all being a dream."

John looked over at the sofa, a blink spared before a simple smile as teaspoons of loose tea leaves were hefted from the tin. "Not much in it for you if you did. Unless you've actually got some sort of weird fantasy about being part of a machine. Wouldn't be the biggest surprise of the century."

Sherlock shook his head, watching him intently as he surveyed him from across the room. "I don't think he's dead," he said. 

Predictably, John's body conveyed his immediate curiosity as clearly as it did the initial flinch at Sherlock's blunt proposal. "Based on what?" he asked, his posture stiffer, spine straight as though to shield him with the breadth of his back.

"On the evidence."

John's head quirked to the right as he wiped his hands off on his thighs, stepping closer to the den as though he might miss something if he could not also watch his words be spoken. "Right. Well, I'm all ears. What did I miss?"

The Devil's Advocate is only as powerful as the angel he keeps on hand. And a nightmare's just another word for a dream. Sherlock liked John; he really did. But not even that was stronger than his need to be right, for logic to win, and for everything to make sense and know its place. "You said it yourself: don't rule out the impossible. I suppose that's easier for me because the whole thing is impossible and so one impossibility doesn't really seem any greater than the others. If one were to accept that it's true that this world is a construct of a computer generated dream, then it's safe to infer that the computer can possibly contain a digital backup of the people connected to it." Sherlock tilted his head just enough that he might catch his stare and meet his dark blue eyes in congress just once more before finding out what it looked like to break a man's mind. "What we can't infer, John, is that just because you're the one who believes that dead people can exist as memories in a dream, that you're the dreamer. There is absolutely nothing that says that _you're_ the one who's alive."


	5. Chapter 5

John's pallor washed to white as he stood with his hands secured to the back of his chair at the cusp of the den and kitchen walkway. He was a remarkably beige man in general--beige skin, beige hair, even at times a beige jumper as though he were still trying to blend into the desert sands with wrinkles like the cracks in the earth. A white face made the silver show in his short, swept bangs and highlighted the wide whites of his eyes. Even his lips were little more than a thin, white line above his chin as he stared with furrowed brow at Sherlock's continually flapping jaw.

"The Sherlock you described was important and important things are always well protected. Power failure, some sort of cyber attack, whatever you want to believe is responsible for it all, if the people in charge were going to ensure someone was kept alive and well, why would it be you and not him?" Sherlock didn't take much satisfaction--some, but not much--in John's obvious discomfort. Belief and conviction were always hard things to have rattled but Sherlock was willing to give him some credit in the bonus of having his fictional existence now put into question.

John was a soldier, though. He followed gut feelings as much as his senses. "I watched him die," he said again, fighting back against Sherlock's counter-attack of reason and probability with his own brand of observational fact. "That's too much of a coincidence when it happens just before everything goes to shit."

"Right. He died and so that story ended. Tends to happen when the main character is gone. You're looking at it from the wrong perspective again. If the computer was trying to make sense of you losing Sherlock, then why did it end where he did? Your story would go on past that. But if the computer was trying to make sense of the loss of something else? You have to agree it makes a lot more sense. The real John Watson dies, the computer tries to work it in, somehow that includes circumstances in which the dream Sherlock dies, and it's time to reboot with a new dream since it's a little hard to rationalize resurrection into the narrative. Except it doesn't lose the character of John Watson. The memory of him still exists even if physically he's gone. But that's all it is: memory. It's not creative, it can't integrate with the dreams, it only remembers the person it once was while Sherlock, alive and well, continues to dream peacefully."

It was interesting to watch the sway of hope and horror play out across the older man's face. Happy to have a reason to believe his friend was alive; devastated with the idea that accepting that fact meant being open to his own theoretical demise and nonexistence. Sherlock had never really seen the price of bliss so elegantly portrayed before. What was happiness if it couldn't be treasured? What was fear if the things one feared were gone and done and irrevocable? He wondered if John had a similar reaction to being told there was no Father Christmas. Dashed dreams and lost hopes were part of growing up. It was time John gave up on a world of fantasy and miracles and accept boring, predictable reality like everyone else. 

"I'm not a memory," he said, swallowing hard before clenching his jaw once more, the muscles flexing under his rounded cheeks.

Sherlock shrugged, throwing his arms up behind his head as he reclined against the leather sofa. "You can't prove that any more than you can prove your own theory."

John laughed at that, shaking his head, looking around the room in close to a panic as his eyes darted and leaped from place to place. "I think I'd know if I was dead. If I was just.. part of a machine."

"I think I'd know if my life was a dream."

John laughed again but the sound bordered on a sob. He clasped his hand over his mouth even as his chest seemed to expand quicker with breath. Panic attack? Interesting reaction. Why was it so difficult to see that he _was_ alive and therefore everything he believed in was obviously false? There was no dream world, no computer overlord, no electronic version of anyone living or dead. There was something funny going on, there was no mistake about that, but why was it so much easier to hold on to the impossible when it included such contradictory statements as one's own death and the possibility of life after?

John pursed his lips and breathed in deep through his nose, a queer smile in the corners of his mouth. ".... I know how to prove it," he said at last, nodding slowly, gaining vigor as he stepped away from his chair and into the room. "I can prove to you that you're wrong."

Sherlock quirked a brow with interest. "Can you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can." He stood in front of him, hands flexing at his sides as he stared down with far less anger than Sherlock expected this far into the game. He seemed strangely resolute despite the way his body fell to tremors. "Even if you are right, there's still one thing we agree on, even if you didn't think of it. If I'm right, Sherlock died in the real world and that made him die in the dream. If you're right, _I_ died in the real world--but Sherlock was still the one who died in here. Know that that tells me? It says Sherlock Holmes doesn't want to live in a world where he loses John Watson," he said, nostrils flaring as he took several deep breaths. "So have fun weaving this into your narrative."

Sherlock jumped as specs of blood from the gaping wound in John's face splattered against his own, watching with eyes blown wide as the body crumpled to the floor, revolver hitting the wood and skipping away much the same as his mobile had done. His ears rang with the concussion of sound from the gunshot while smells of gunpowder, blood and shattered flesh made his stomach twist and sour.

He sat very still. He should have grabbed his phone and called for the police but his body felt frozen to the spot. It wouldn't make a difference anyway. Sherlock could see streaks of brain matter on the floor, sticking to the upholstery of John's chair, clinging to the wallpaper. That was certainly one way to prove definitively if one was alive or not. Sherlock hadn't meant for him to... Crazy didn't usually mean suicidal. Usually pushing buttons and instigating annoyed and angered people, but no one had ever-- _why on earth would anyone think to_ \--no one had ever killed themselves in front of him in protest. That wasn't what was supposed to happen. 

Sherlock moved to lean over the coffee table, some irrational part of him needing to see and know that John was really dead. His blue eyes were open, the left one bulging slightly from its socket as the pressure from the gunshot forced it loose, restrained only by flesh. He'd bitten his tongue. John was always licking his lips and really should have known better. He'd have choked on the blood if he weren't already dead. Silly soldier. Stupid John. It wasn't any fun to argue with him if he was just going to go and kill himself.

He stood up and ran to the kitchen sink, the toilet too far away as his mouth filled with the taste of bile. His knees felt weak and he all but fell against the counter as he heaved and scrambled with his heart racing in his throat. He wasn't usually squeamish. In general he had an iron stomach that could handle the look or smell of anything. Even the sound of someone else vomiting did not induce the compulsion in him. But this wasn't just a body. It had been a man not minutes before, one that looked at him as he raised his gun and did not break that stare even as his own finger pulled the trigger. Sherlock rationalized that the tears on his own cheeks were from the force of his heaving and not some emotional response linked to sentiment or guilt. He'd just killed a man by talking to him. Murder by disbelief. Antagonized suicide. He wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, breathing through parted lips and he tried to calm the irrational part of him that was terrified despite the fact that there was no danger posed to him at all. He was shaking. He was crying. Why was he doing that? Why did it matter so much that someone he barely knew had just killed himself in front of him? 

Why didn't his leg hurt?

Sherlock gazed down at his feet, seeing only two pristine legs that knew neither bruising nor swelling. He turned his head to look back at the floor in front of the coffee table where John's body had fallen in a heap. It was gone. The pool of blood where his head had come to rest was nothing but a stain on the rug above which sat a teddy bear with its black, soulless eyes. Sherlock starred, frozen, unable to move at all. This wasn't his university flat; this was Baker Street. This was his home. Their home. Two arms encircle him from behind and a chin came to rest on his shoulder. ' _Stay_ ,' it whispered in a voice he knew, pleading with as much strength as the arms could hold him to.

Something was wrong; something that couldn't be rationalized or swept away as though nothing had ever happened. And with one final surge of adrenalin fueled by the terror of things unknown, Sherlock opened his eyes and was awake at last in the Ark, in the dark, all alone.


End file.
